If I had to draw up a list of pet hates, I'd find room for "traditional dancing" - Morris Men, belly dancers and the like. Just thinking about them makes me feel uneasy.

At lunch, Pasha, the sumptuously decorated Moroccan in Gloucester Road, evokes the laziness of the soukh in the heat of the day. In the evening, you get the floor show.

Give me the lunch any day - it's identical food without someone wiggling their navel in your direction. And the food is superb. We copped out on attempting to order individually and went for the set menu.

After that, everything just arrived: fresh bread, olives; small dishes of melting, aubergine purée, a chunky chick-pea-and-shallot salad, spicy sausages, sautéed potatoes and fresh coriander. There were others: lamb koftas with more coriander; a zingy tomato, capers and lemon mix; beetroot, cinnamon and honey salad - all this and more, for £15 a person.

The glasses of Moroccan red were good enough; the baklavas and Turkish delight somehow found a hole to fill. One jarring note was the coffee. It was weak - Italian, from a machine - when an earthy, North African brew was needed.

The service, too, was a bit ragged - it was as if they were saving their energy for night-time. But it was one of the most relaxed, yet finely-produced and great-value lunches I've had in a long while. For that, and the absence of the belly dancers, I give thanks.